believe in some spiritual connection, this remark would throw me.

But I dreaded being seen by him, or by the two of them together, thus revealing all my dereliction, that of a woman no longer loved, exposing my desire to be loved again.

And anyway, I am writing jealousy as I lived it, tracking and accumulating the desires, sensations, and actions that

And instantly, the other woman took her place; I saw this other woman, heard her, exuding sensuality and repeated orgasms. It was as if an entire class of women with extraordinary erotic capabilities—the arrogant, radiant women whose photos adorn the covers of the magazines’ “Summer Sex” issues—all stood up triumphantly, and I was excluded.

The ones to which I paid no attention at first would return at night to ravage me with meanings that were suddenly hopelessly clear.

De facto, catharsis only benefits those who are untouched by passion.

There was suffering, on the one hand; and on the other, a mind incapable of applying itself to anything but the testimony and analysis of that suffering.

The erotic scenes I replayed interminably at the beginning of our relationship and which I avoided thinking about now because they could not be realized, all the dreams of pleasure and happiness, had given way to a sterile and arid discourse of persuasion.

My one source of pleasure was to imagine the other woman finding out he still saw me—that